


"Do You Think That Love is Real?"

by CharlieIsMyName



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Dialogue Heavy, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, High School, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, Marriage, Middle School, Moral Dilemmas, Nicknames, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-High School, Suicide, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28971252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieIsMyName/pseuds/CharlieIsMyName
Summary: “Do you think that love is real?” The question slipped out, hard and heavy against her tongue. He looked at her.They talk it out
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	"Do You Think That Love is Real?"

**Author's Note:**

> These are characters I've had for a while and since it's not fandom related I doubt many will read it but still. I'd love any sort of advice or comments! Also the characters are named Grace and Kyle. I have a couple other stories involving them. Tell me if you're interested in seeing any more! (Also I messed up the title hhhhhhh)

“Do you think that love is real?” The question slipped out, hard and heavy against her tongue. He looked at her, his gaze unfocused and unattentive, somewhat like the gaze of someone who had just been woken up from a nap, which was close enough to what happened, him being woken up early in the morning on a Saturday, a day which he was known to sleep in on. He opened his mouth as if to talk before silencing whatever he was going to say with a slow sip from his mug, which was near filled to the brim with dark, unsweetened coffee that she had made him. He seemed to have immediately regretted this decision, grimacing at the bitter taste before placing the cup back down forcefully onto the plastic countertop, which surface was indented and warped by years of placing hot drinks and beverages on it, as well as some far more noticeable cigarette burns which lined the edge of the cheap fake marble table, some more fresh than others,  
“Hm, I don’t know, what do you think?” he answered, drowsiness evident in his voice. This wasn’t the answer she had been expecting from him. She had anticipated a response along the lines of ‘Obviously love is real, stupid!’, or at the very least a yes. She guessed it made sense for him not to be sure, as he had gone through so many romantic partners through the years, none of which sticking around, at least as something more than friends, though it still felt unnatural for someone as attuned to human emotion as him to be so unsure of a question relating to romance. He had always been the type to be hyper-compassionate, even when it was not necessary. This trait of his had been apparent since they were young kids, the memory of their games of tag passing through her mind. Their games of tag were hardly tag and generally consisted of two teams violently attacking each other in a loud, albeit entertaining brawl. She would almost always end up on a team with him, which was nice considering their friendship, and that she never got along well with most of the other kids, except a few who she did not talk to as often back then. There would always be the same kid on the other team that she didn't know very well, but from what she could gather from small interactions and rumors, he was a brat with a god complex, and if that’s what’s being spread about you in a mostly gossip free elementary school, there is probably something wrong about you. The kid was known as a very manipulative person, well, as manipulative as one can be in 1st grade, and would often burst into tears or act injured even if he wasn't in tag just to pull one over on the other team, which most people caught onto quickly, though of course there was a couple of dim bulbs who didn’t quite grasp the concept of common sense, and would try to help him again and again, even when it was painfully obvious he did not need it. Her friend was one of the few people that fell for his tricks time and time again, repeatedly trying to care for the crying person, and coming back crying as well with multiple bruises and scratch marks almost every single time,  
“Personally, no, it’s probably not real,” she began, her voice flat and almost questioning, “I mean, it’s just a bunch of chemicals and hormones boiling together into a sense of attachment and sexual desire,” her tone quivered a bit at the end of the sentence, a yawn attempting to creep it’s way out of her throat before she forced it back down. Suddenly he looked back up at her, a sort of blazing determination and anger presenting itself on his face. He was always so easy to read, even more so when tired,  
“So?” he half mumbled, his drowsy state making him appear almost drunk, even though she knew that he had not consumed alcohol in over a week, “Who cares if it’s just a bunch of mixing hormones and chemicals,” an aggressive undertone managed it’s way into his speech, his words feeling considerably more powerful, “Your brain signals are all because of chemical reactions and such, your not just gonna say that all your thoughts and movements are fake because of that.” his voice had lost it’s prowess as soon as he said the word ‘brain’, a slight falter between each word, a layer of uncertainty masking his prior confidence so much so that he sounded like a nervous kid presenting a project without having rehearsed; which was almost funny in a way. She toyed with the idea behind his words in her head, they made some sense, if not potentially being scientifically inaccurate, not that she would know, as that's not what she had pursued as a job,  
“I suppose you're right,” she said, punctuating the sentence by taking a long and drawn out sip of her coffee. She shifted in her seat for a moment, letting her statement settle in. She did not normally agree with him, and she was mostly right in those cases, but for this there was no real way of telling if she was correct or not, and she still did not have a proper answer for her question, “Sorry for the weird question, I’m just a bit nervous about May’s wedding soon,” her voice was a mix between sounding like an apology and an excuse, but he did not seem to take much notice,  
“Oh yeah!” he exclaimed, bouncing up in his seat as if a jolt of lightning shot through him. At least he wasn’t drowsy anymore, “Mayflower’s wedding, I’m super excited for it!” he bounced in his stool, “Strange one she’s marrying though,” he whispered as if he needed to make sure someone didn’t hear him say it. May Ahern, highschool tragedy. She was conflicted on how to feel about May’s marriage, on one hand, she was happy for her, and on the other hand, well, she didn’t know. May was one of the few people she had kept in touch with after high school, a grade below her and failing most of her classes, she was a hassle to deal with, but pleasant overall. May had a generally depressing attitude, and throughout the school years seemed extremely against the idea of romance, repeatedly making up complex lies about how she exposed cheaters in relationships and rejected so many guys, not even to make it seem like she was popular, but just to show off that she had turned them down. Not only did May seem against romance, but it had failed her when she had tried it out, her boyfriend whom she dated for one year when she was 18 had been found drowned in the car he had borrowed from her, driving it off a dock. It was ruled a suicide. May had a difficult time coping with the loss of him, even developing a fear of water and refusing to let others borrow her car, so it was a strange thought that now, hardly even three years later, she was getting married to a guy that she had only dated for exactly 11 months. The guy that she was marrying was a strange one too, a self-proclaimed activist and well known male feminist blogger, he was loud and boisterous, and overall kind of annoying. May had met him when he had publicly announced in the highschool parking lot that he was going to behead someone. This someone, specifically, was the same kid who would cry during tag, and May’s future husband had claimed that he had infringed upon the rights of a woman by hitting them. Long story short, the tag kid thought it would be funny to give out the guy's number, and May happened to be one of the 13 he gave his number to. The guy was insane but seemed head over heels in love with May, so that was good, but whether that was enough to sustain a marriage, she had no idea,  
“Mayflower, really?” she scoffed, “You are still calling her that?” mockery crept through her voice, but it was laced with humor and fond amusement, “She’s 21 you know?” She half-muttered, shifting forward in her seat. Mayflower had been what he used to call May in middle school when he was still trying to get a date with April Parsley, an 11th grader who hung around the school's shared gym after hours and during the day. He had recruited her, Gracie Saville, to use the money from her allowance to buy 2 boxes of those expensive chocolate hearts, and deliver it to him so he could ask April out. He ended up chickening out, and they ate them together with Marie Mullee, a transfer student that had mistaken them for sweethearts and sat right down with them,  
“Well, yeah, never too old for a nickname,” He announced, pounding his fist down onto his table in an exaggerated gesture. She lifted her drink to her lips,  
“It’s too old when your getting married and have a job,” she scoffed, crossing and uncrossing her legs before leaning forward onto the table,  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever Gigi,”  
“It's Gracie, Grace preferably,” He stared at her with a look in his eyes that she could only describe as polite smugness, the kind of look your teacher gives you when you get a question wrong. Angering,  
“But you're not married, and you don’t have a job, so…”  
“I do have a job, I just got a part-time job as a cashier,” She returned his conceited expression full force, not even bothering to delude it with any sort of feigned pleasantries. If you’re going to show an ego with me, I’m going to show an ego with you,  
“Jeez, congrats I guess,” he muttered, shifting his gaze to the side in an overblown expression of sadness, clearly trying to garner her sympathy. She stood, grabbing his still mostly full mug and dumping the coffee into her own, mixing the two before placing it back down in front of him,  
“Fine, I’ll wash your dishes,” She sighed, looking down in condescension. He noticeably shifted in his seat before gripping back onto his mug and lifting it to his mouth. She walked over to the sink, turning on the water and running it over the stained mug,  
“Thanks,” he said.


End file.
